


Love Is...

by theplatinthehat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical References, M/M, the greatest 6000 year love story ever told
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 14:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatinthehat/pseuds/theplatinthehat
Summary: Crowley’s relationship with love… and Aziraphale.





	Love Is...

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm into Good Omens now. Full disclosure - I haven't read the book or watched the miniseries yet; I've just managed to fall in love with these characters by osmosis. This is the exact opposite of a problem
> 
> Big thanks to @picnokinesis for beta-reading (and listening). I might make this into a podfic? I'm a firm believer that stories should be spoken and this one works really well. Let me know if that's something you'd want?
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr - https://theplatinthehat.tumblr.com/ Hope you enjoy!

Love is…

… Wrong, Crowley determines in the Garden, 6,000 years ago. Demons aren’t supposed to love – that’s part of the deal when falling. There’s no room for feelings like love down Below. 

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember what it felt like to love. So when he feels that long-forgotten flutter of his heart as the angel confesses that he gave his flaming sword to a defenceless, pregnant woman, it takes all his power to quash it back to stillness.

Wrong. Wrong! WRONG!

This isn’t something he should be able to feel.

He’s almost able to extinguish the sensation altogether when the world’s first storm thunders overhead. The angel, Aziraphale, raises a white-feathered wing over the demon’s head to shield him from the rain. Protection; that’s what the angel offered to Eve. What he’s offering Crowley now.

The demon exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

Love is…

… Strange, Crowley muses in a busy Roman market. Aziraphale has stumbled upon him quite out of the blue and has joined him for a drink. 

As the angel blabbers about dining on delicacies Crowley can’t help but be thankful that the dark lenses are covering up the fact that he’s drinking in every part of him. The perfectly manicured hands that work for goodness, gentleness, kindness. Bright blue eyes, lit up with a love for the world and all its living creatures. And hair, oh golden hair! Adored by the sun and painted with light, the world reminding people – reminding Crowley – that this man is an angel.

Crowley shakes his head.

Waxing lyrical about a pretty man – an angel at that – is not going to help him with his job. He does not need distracting. He is a demon. If anyone should be doing the distracting, it’s him.

But then the angel slips up.

“Let me tempt you – “ and just like that Crowley is lost again.

Later, high up on a starlit hill he resolves to abandon love and its strange fixations. He has a job to do and he won’t be letting any curly-haired angel get in the way of _that_.

 

Love is…

… Weak, Crowley thinks as he races through the streets of Revolutionary Paris. His enemy is due to be discorparated, something that any self-respecting demon would be celebrating with a good wine, and a few well-orchestrated temptations. 

But love has him here, using up his miracle energy to save the angel from his own idiocy. Why had Aziraphale come to France dressed like _that_? Didn’t he know better?

And didn’t Crowley know better? He knew this interaction, like all the interactions before, was making him weaker for his angel.

When had Aziraphale become his anyway?

Was it at Golgotha, as they pondered the ineffable plan in the face of such pain?

Was it on that misty battlefield, where the seeds of their Arrangement were sown?

Was it at the Globe when Crowley promised to miracle an audience for _Hamlet_? His treat, he'd said.

Weakness. All of it.

And yet, Crowley couldn't help himself. 

With a shake of his head, and a wry smile, he miracled himself inside La Bastille to save his angel's skin. 

Later, he'd allow himself another moment of weakness. He ate crepes with his angel and hoped that his company would wipe out the memories of the day.

His efforts are rewarded with a smile.

 

Love is…

… Reckless, Crowley determines as he walks, well waddles, into a church. Bombs are whistling overhead and London is screaming.

Crowley pays this no heed. The ground is literally burning his feet with holiness. But Aziraphale needs him now more than ever and it's going to take more than a little consecrated ground to stop him reaching his angel. 

He pushes open the heavy doors and strides (skips) inside. There, by the altar, are Nazis, Aziraphale and a gun. 

How did his angel keep getting into these messes?

It's only once the Nazis (and the church) have been suitably dispatched, and Aziraphale reunited with his books that Crowley realises the extent of what he's done. If he were to write a report, the destruction of a church would look favourably on his record. The death of some fascists was no great achievement as even those down Below had to admit that the humans had gone a bit too far. But rescuing an angel and his beloved books – now that sounds far too much like doing the right thing.

A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.

But he realises that he doesn't care because his angel's smile is worth more than _anything_ downstairs can throw at him.

Crowley offers Aziraphale a lift home.

 

Love is…

… Cautious, Crowley reasons as he watches his angel walk away – again. It's a neon night, and the Sixties are in full swing. Crowley's been keeping up with the human's ever-changing sense of style this century, but Aziraphale remains timeless.

He starts the Bentley and roars off into the depths of Soho. What could have driven Aziraphale, who so adamantly refused to hand over the holy water all those years ago, to change his mind tonight? His angel's eyes had been loud; screaming with worry, concern, _fear_. Of what?

He slams on the brakes and a pigeon marvels at its miraculous escape.

Aziraphale thought that he might... use it on himself?

He wants to laugh at the idea, but he knows that the list of his reckless, self-destructive antics goes back 6,000 years. Crowley has no intention of completely destroying himself – call it vanity or pride, but he likes himself too much.

But there's enough of a doubt in Aziraphale's mind to hand it over with extreme caution. 

Crowley stares at the tartan flask, hoping that the right look, the right thought, will unlock its secrets. Why would he care that much?

His breath catches in his throat.

Oh.

No.

Crowley shakes his head. Of course the angel loves him. It's his God-ordained mandate to love everyone and everything. But this feels like something more.

Aziraphale's words smack him back down to earth.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley."

Too fast? How is 6,000 years too fast?

With a groan he puts the Bentley back into gear and starts to drive again and doesn't stop until he reaches the South Downs. He lies on the bonnet of the car and stares up at the stars, trying to remember all their names, distracting himself from the one name getting louder and louder inside his head.

 

Love is…

… Strong, Crowley realises just as the world is about to end at a military base in Tadfield. All it takes is a word from his angel and he can do anything. Part seas. Move mountains. Raise the dead.

"Or I'll never talk to you again."

Stop time.

And once time has been stopped – a power he didn't even know he had – everything else seems much easier. Halting Armageddon. Convincing Above and Below to back down. Surviving execution. These things just fall into place. 

Love is strong as death – a saying he remembers from his past Above.

It's stronger than 6,000 years of supposed opposition. It's stronger than an almost endless repetition of rejections. It's stronger than this demon's innate nature not to love. 

Celestial powers, some kind of cosmic magnetism, keeps pulling Crowley and Aziraphale back together no matter how far they try to be apart. Not even the splendours of Alpha Centauri, the raging fire inside a precious bookshop or the combined forces of heaven and hell can tear them asunder.

It's undeniable.

They're meant to be.

And Crowley finally stops fighting.

 

Love is…

… Right, Crowley admits as they walk through Berkeley Square. They've stayed on much longer than they intended to at the Ritz but Crowley is loathe to be separate from his angel for even a moment.

He's already lost him once. He'll never be so careless ever again.

The night is perfect. It's been raining. The air is purified and the streets shine under their watery blanket. The sounds of traffic are muted this late at night – almost a world away. And high above their heads, flitting amongst the branches, a lone bird sings. Crowley recognises its song.

A nightingale.

What a peculiar night this is.

Aziraphale invites Crowley back to the restored bookshop for a nightcap. The doubt in his eyes melts into a smile when the demon accepts. Of course he accepts.

They could miracle themselves there, but where's the fun in that?

Besides, it's hardly far.

Side by side they walk, Aziraphale doing most of the talking and Crowley letting him. As they stand, waiting to cross the road, he decides that he's had enough. He's tired of the flirting. Tired of dancing around the subject. Tired of being apart.

This is the first night of the rest of their lives after all.

He takes Aziraphale's hand, and interlaces their fingers.

The angel looks down immediately before meeting Crowley's gaze. A slight blush rises to his cheeks. There is no chance of misunderstanding now.

"Is this alright, angel?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale smiles, "Yes. Of course it is."

An angel and a demon walk as one through the streets of London. Their happiness is infectious as passersby seeing their linked hands and make offerings of wide smiles as they slip by. They don't let go until they reach the bookshop, and even then it is a reluctant parting.

They close the door and shut out the world.

This time is their time, and theirs alone.

 

Love is…

… Everything, Crowley smiles as he lies in bed with his angel. The events of the last few days have taken their toll on Aziraphale and sheer exhaustion has left him sound asleep. Crowley watches over him, carding his fingers through those white-blonde curls. The angel shifts, and sighs a contended sigh, but does not wake.

He shifts closer to Crowley.

The demon smiles and removes his sunglasses to admire the sleeping form properly. 

This is everything that Crowley wants. For the last 6,000 years it's all he's ever wanted.

Aziraphale.

The angel who gave away his heavenly-issued sword. The angel who loves the world and all its books with his whole heart. The angel who was his enemy, who became his best friend and who is now something more.

With Aziraphale there is warmth. There is peace. There is a calm from the raging storms of life. A place to feel safe.

The angel shifts again, waking just enough to slide an arm over Crowley's stomach. 

His heart flutters – just like it did when the world was new.

"Are you going to sleep, my dear?" Aziraphale asks.

Love is patient.

Crowley presses a kiss to the angel's forehead.

"Yes, angel. Yes I am."

There's a sleepy smile and the blonde lays his head on the demon's shoulder. Crowley pulls the cover around Aziraphale's frame and turns off the light with a snap of his fingers.

Love is kind.

Crowley marvels at his angel's face in the silver moonlight, scarcely believing that they'd made it this far after all this time.

The sound of a gentle rain on the window pane carries Crowley off to sleep. 

Love really is everything, he thinks as he surrenders to the night.

Well, you could say it's... ineffable.


End file.
